


flare gun

by foolondahill17



Series: things Dean doesn't tell Sam [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 05:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20887115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolondahill17/pseuds/foolondahill17
Summary: Dean’s sixteen when he starts smoking, and he’s sixteen when he stops. John makes sure of that.





	flare gun

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: contains child abuse, because even if a parent thinks what they’re doing is in the best interest of their child, pain and humiliation are never an appropriate way to teach a lesson.

Dean gets into smoking in tenth grade: cuts classes with a group of schoolmates who dare him to give it a try, laugh when he sputters on the first swallow. Smoking’s the one vice that Dad’s always been pretty strict about, for whatever reason, but Dean does it anyway because he’s sixteen and he’s still a little pissed about Sonny and Robin. They leave that school district before Dean gets the chance to take his finals, and they hit the road for summer, but the cigarettes stay, even if the classmates don’t.

Dean filches Marlboro cartons from convenience stores and scatters the packs around his stuff so Dad or Sammy won’t find them. There’re holed up in a Motel 6 for a weekend while Dad chases a _shayatin_ near Tulsa. There’s a pool and a few other families stopping over on their way to long weekends and family vacations, so Sammy’s got plenty to keep him occupied. 

Once, Dean’s stupid enough to come home smelling like ash. He catches that look in Dad’s eyes, the look that Dean knows by heart, that’s lately been turned on Sammy more than Dean, but Dean still knows the flash of anger and fierce disapproval, and his stomach drops to the floor. 

Dad orders him to fetch every pack he has left in a way that leaves no room for any answer but _yes, sir._ Dean fetches the half-empty packs he’s got stowed around the room, in his duffle, in his knapsack, one in the glove compartment, buried under some crumpled maps and brown takeout napkins. The carton was fresh. Dean’s probably got over a hundred smokes left. 

“Smoke them,” says Dad, looking at Dean hard over the top of a book, something about medieval Islamic astronomy. 

“What?” says Dean. 

“You heard me, son,” says Dad, voice not exactly stern, but not exactly gentle, and his eyes pull at Dean with something close to disappointment. Dean already feels like he’s going to throw up, and his hands shake when he lights the first cigarette, clenches it so hard between his teeth he almost bites the filter off. 

He drags the smoke into his mouth, almost forgets to exhale, and chokes a little as he blows the smoke back out. Dad’s eyes stay on Dean’s face, brows heavy, not exactly frowning. Dean feels stupid. Like he’s in a school play, spotlight on him, and he forgets his big line. And Dad is unimpressed. 

“Keep going,” says Dad when Dean finishes the first cigarette, drops the butt on the floor and grinds it into the carpet with the heel of his boot. 

Dean doesn’t question this time, just draws another cigarette from one of the many open packs and smokes it, fast as he can breathe. Dad’s still looking at him. Dean’s eyes burn, blames it on the smoke, and wants to look away from Dad, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed to or not. 

Dean finishes the second cigarette. 

“Get through them all. I’ll be here.” Dad finally pulls his eyes away, back to his book, and Dean knows he should feel relieved that Dad’s eyes are no longer dissecting him, but instead he feels like he’s been dismissed. Like Dad studied him for long enough and decided he wasn’t worth his attention. 

The nicotine buzz bypasses the usual fizzling euphoria, barrels headlong into a trembling, gasping ball of energy in the pit of Dean’s stomach that spirals its way quickly into an unbearable friction, burrows into the marrow of his bones. His body doesn’t know what to do with all the tension, so it just makes him feel sick: shuts his lungs down until every drag physically hurts, sticking to his ribs. His throat burns, teeth ache, a knife-point of pain starts up in his right temple and spreads across his skull until he can barely see. 

And he keeps smoking. Keeps smoking until every cigarette burns to a nub, even though Dad’s not checking to make sure Dean doesn’t cheat. He burns his fingers when his hands tremble too much to hold the lighter steady. His legs and back cramp from standing ramrod straight in the center of the room, but he’s not sure he’s allowed to sit down. He’s just glad Sammy’s outside by the pool, hopes to god his little brother stays there for just a little while longer. 

Dean thinks he enters some kind of meditative state – hyperactive focus on just one more cigarette, just one more. He doesn’t let himself waver, swallows back the bile that rises in his throat, pushes through the high-pitched whining in his ears, the dizziness that clatters through his brain. Just one more. Just one more until his fingers fish for another butt, land on the last empty, flimsy cardboard pack, and it’s over. Stomach and brain swimming inside Dean’s quivering body. 

“You done?” Dad looks up when Dean’s left wheezing for breath, gasping past the nausea and no longer clicking the lighter. 

“Yes, sir,” Dean breathes. His voice feels like nails scraping up his throat. 

“You ever gonna smoke again?” Dad asks. 

“No, sir.” 

“Good,” says Dad with a nod, and that’s the end of it. “Go tell Sam to come inside. It’s time for dinner.” 

Dean hobbles out of the motel room and finds Sam looking at baseball cards on the sidewalk with a couple other kids. When they come back into the motel room, the mess of Dean’s empty cigarette packs and ashes are off the carpet and in the trash. Sam gags on the air in the room, clogged with the smell of smoke. 

“What happened?” He asked, and neither Dean nor Dad answer him. Maybe the kid is finally getting used to not getting everything he wants, because he just accepts the silence with a roll of his eyes. 

Dad fishes out Chinese takeout leftovers from the mini fridge, warms them up in the microwave. Dean thinks one swallow of anything is going to send the contents of his stomach spilling onto the floor, but he’s not sure whether or not he’s allowed to refuse dinner. Somehow, he thinks the answer to that question is _not_. So, he eats his reheated sweet and sour chicken, forkfuls of fried rice, stuffs it into his mouth, chews it even though it tastes and feels like rubber, swallows. One after another like he’s smoking cigarettes again. 

Sammy’s babbling about baseball or swimming or playing manhunt with the other kids after dark, and Dean can’t understand a word his little brother says; his head is spinning, ears are ringing too loudly to concentrate on anything else. 

Dean topples off the bed, makes it to the bathroom in time to vomit his dinner into the toilet. Dad’s there almost immediately, like he’s been waiting to pounce on the moment. He pushes Dean’s bangs back from his sweaty forehead, mutters something comforting that Dean doesn’t hear. Or doesn’t want to hear. 

“Dean, you okay?” says Sammy. 

“He’s okay,” Dad says, rubbing smooth circles into Dean’s shaking shoulders. “Must have been something he ate.” 

Sammy wrinkles his nose at the paper plate of Chinese food on his lap, pokes at a piece of chicken with his fork, shrugs and eats it anyway. “Seems okay to me.” 

“Shut up,” Dean rasps, just for something to say. Dad hands him a wadded-up ball of toilet paper so he can wipe his mouth. He takes Dean’s elbow firmly in hand and hoists his son back onto his feet. Dean spits into the sink and washes his mouth out. 

He doesn’t need help back to the bed, but Dad’s there anyway, steadying hand not leaving his elbow. Dad chucks the rest of Dean’s uneaten dinner into the garbage, pulls down the covers and lets Dean crawl into bed, even though it’s not even eight o’clock yet and Dad wanted them to clean the guns tonight. 

“Take the night off, Deano,” says Dad heavily. “I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean slurs.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr where I psychoanalyze the boys, dissect incredibly minute details about the show, post bits and pieces about my fic, and look for friends: [foolondahill17](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/foolondahill17)


End file.
